


In Memoriam: May, 1984

by Hope



Series: In Memoriam (SPN, pre-series) [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Pre-Series, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-02
Updated: 2007-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:10:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted on <a href="http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/53768.html">hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com</a>. Written for Sam’s birthday. Part of the In Memoriam collection.</p>
    </blockquote>





	In Memoriam: May, 1984

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com](http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/53768.html). Written for Sam’s birthday. Part of the In Memoriam collection.

*

There’s something about having a baby strapped to your chest that confounds a man’s center of gravity. In all kinds of ways.

John remembers when Mary was still swollen with Dean, how he’d have involuntary dark thoughts of how easy it would be for her to overbalance, how vulnerable the baby was with only the stretched-thin layer of flesh protecting it.

Oh sure, he’s used to it now. It didn’t take all that long to come to grips with the fact that the sling was the best way to keep Sammy close when John needed both hands free for other things. Especially as there was no way in hell John was leaving Sammy in anyone else’s care (finding the money for babysitting being not the first or even last reason). Sling at first, anyway, the weight of Sammy’s little body pulling the fabric tight and heavy around John’s shoulders, Sammy’s limbs folding in on themselves. Jesus, the kid could sleep for hours like that, sometimes refused to otherwise.

Once Sammy started walking more and sleeping less, though, he needed something more restrictive; less like a sling and more like a pack, but strapped to John’s front instead of his back. Sammy facing John in sleep, facing out if he were awake, scrutinising the world at John’s chest-height with the same intent fascination and delight as he did practically everything else. At least at that far off the ground he couldn’t shove it all in his mouth. Though if the level of drooling was anything to go by, he sure wanted to.

It threw a man’s centre of gravity off, is what it did. Firm as the straps might be secured, the wriggling of little limbs still jerked it to creaking some times, and strapping it on in the first place required a few moments of adjustment; of brief ache in his lower back before John re-learned to tilt his torso back to account for the new weight. The occassional flash of terror, involuntary fear of falling and crushing the kid and yet a simultaneous fierce protectiveness that dictated the closer Sammy was to him, the safer he’d be.

Sammy’s legs are kicking like he’s already head of the swim team, and John can’t see his face from this angle but he’s learnt to read Sammy’s reactions enough from body language alone. Mesmerised by the doors swinging open ahead of them, Sammy’s head is still - as still as it can be while being wobbled by the impact of John’s steps - blond hair wispy and tangled a little at the back where he’s rubbed against John’s chest. Not leaning back now, but eagerly forward.

Dean steps forward and looks back and up at John. John nods and Dean trots off down one of the aisles stretching ahead of and above him. Sam burbles, buzzes, hands out and fingers grasping.

John strolls. It’s something conducive to the whole baby-strapped-to-chest thing, an almost cowboy-like, wide-gaited, leisurely pace. The first aisle has an immense selection of throw cushions on one side, rugs on the other, reaching half-way up to the barn-like roof way above them. The next aisle down is towels and sheet sets; then there’s some kind of warp in the logic of the store and he’s browsing fishing gear. Sam reaches out for the lures as they pass and John obliges him, stops. Drags his finger lightly across where they’re hanging in all their glittering multitude; they tinkle and sparkle and Sammy slaps his hands against the worn canvas supporting him.

“Daddy!” John turns and Dean’s standing there, hopping from foot to foot. Literally. “I found it!” Dean carols, and John ups the pace of his stroll to follow a still-hopping Dean around the end of the aisle and into the next one: toys.

“Found what?”

Dean rolls his eyes. Exagerratedly, so John isn’t all that offended. “Sammy’s present!”

Dean proudly leads him halfway up the aisle then stops, about-faces, points to the shelf just above his eye-level. Beams. Sammy’s legs kick frenetically. John looks at the set of toy cars and a mat and little twigs of street signs to place around it that Dean’s pointing to. Looks at the small parts, the price. Turns his automatic frown into a look of thoughtfulness, for Dean’s benefit.

“I dunno, kiddo,” he says. “You and Sammy are in the car all the time. Don’t you think he’s had enough of them, at least until he’s a bit older?”

Dean looks slightly puzzled but John doesn’t wait for his answer, turns and sidesteps a handful of paces back down the aisle, to where he saw - there. A whole goddamn _bank_ of stuffed toys, ranged in size from bigger-than-Dean downwards. There’s an _Oof_ from behind him and he turns to find Dean tackling a giant plush tiger to the linoleum floor. Or at least, in the aftermath of tackling; Dean’s just sprawled out on top of it, arms around its neck.

“Too big, buddy,” John says, and strolls further down - past the bigger-than-Sammy toys.

“How about this one?” Dean holds up a stuffed bear roughly the size of John’s head.

John takes the bear, eyes the price tag and then gives the rest of the bear a thorough examination. He twists his mouth, shakes his head. Takes another step down the aisle.

“Here,” he says, and with a note of finality: “these look perfect.”

Dean doesn’t look entirely convinced but John goes ahead and picks through them anyway. The mess of toys is like a plushie mass grave, furry limbs and ears poking out all over the place. “You like rabbits, don’t you Deano?”

Dean shakes his head, looking unconvinced. “Nuh-uh,” he says. “But I think Sammy does,” he adds after a brief pause, as if to spare John’s feelings. John recognises the tone, has to laugh to himself at just how damn smart Dean is. How he’s learning too damn much from his old man.

“This one?” John holds one out. It’s dwarfed in his hand, ears flopping limply over his fingers.

Dean shakes his head, peering at its face. “Too grouchy.”

John picks another at random, this time smoothing the fur over its face with his thumb before holding it out for Dean’s approval.

“His nose looks weird, Dad.”

John sighs, holds out another. Dean takes it from him, holding carefully in both hands.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Well why don’t you hold onto it then, ’til we get to the register.”

Dean looks at the toy rabbit again. “Don’t we wanna give it to him now?”

“Not yet,” John says. “Let’s have the cake first.”

Dean starts hopping again, and John suspects that Dean doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. “Okay!”

It takes longer than usual to clean the boys up after dinner. Dean had been somewhat exuberant with the cake (and hell, it’s not every day of the year he gets to have cake for dinner, so there’s not really _that_ much harm in it), and Sammy wreaking carnage on both the food and his face with his usual enthusiasm. Dean puts on his own pajamas while John lays Sammy down in his crib. Sam bucks in his arms a little, then wriggles and kicks when he’s in on his back, far too awake for this time of night. Damn sugar.

The crib’s served them well; collapsible and sturdier than he could have hoped for in a thrift store find. The baby book (also a thrift store find, and printed sometime in the ’70s if the illustration style is anything to go by) says that it’s time to move from crib to bed, though. Which’ll make travelling easier, and Dean less likely to break his own neck from clambering in.

“Can he have his present now, Dad?” Dean asks, suprisingly subdued, and John blinks, nods.

“You wanna give it to him?”

“We both can,” Dean says, and Dean holds the toy rabbit out to John for long moments before John realises what Dean wants. John gently holds the tail of the rabbit while Dean holds the ears; they both carefully lower it into Sammy’s grasping hands together.

Sam, true to form, grips it immediately and shoves it into his mouth, head-first.

Dean gives a burst of startled laughted. “Dad, he’s stickin’ it in his mouth!” he reaches into the crib, lays a hand on Sammy’s fist. “Sammy, _no!_“

Sammy’s growling a little through the fur, a sticky burble in the back of his throat. John finds he’s grinning. “Dean, just let him,” he says, drawing Dean’s hand away again. “That's what babies do. They test things with their mouth. They're just getting to know each other.” Dean looks askance, but obeys nonetheless. “Tell you what though, Dean. I bet he needs a name. Can you help your brother pick a name?”

Sammy’s getting more excited, knees jerking up and jaw working, gumming away like crazy against the soft, new fur. He makes a loud, pleased sound.

“Bun, Dad!” Dean says, eyes round in something akin to awe. “He said Bun! Mister Bun.”

John laughs outright, ruffles a hand through Dean’s hair. “Mister Bun it is,” he says. “And now you go on and get into bed, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean says, pleased enough at the nature of the world tonight that he’s not even a bit argumentative. He bends over the rail into the crib, planting a kiss on his brother’s eyebrow. “Happy birthday, Sammy,” he says, then bobs again; kisses Sammy’s fist where it’s wound around Mister Bun. “Happy birthday, Mister Bun.”

John smiles, nods at Dean; listens to his heaving, theatrical sigh as Dean climbs into bed behind him, slides under the covers.

Six months.

Tomorrow, and the part of Sammy’s life spent with Mary will be outweighed by the part without. Poor reason for celebration, but one he’s going to keep on honouring anyhow. For the boys, if not for himself.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/53768.html


End file.
